Just Tell Me
by Got Tea
Summary: On a quiet, sunny Saturday, Boyd takes Grace for lunch at a pub.


**This is definitely Joodiff's fault - she gave me the prompt, and then let me get away with not keeping it under the requested 500 words. One day, I promise, I'll keep a story under the limit. Maybe. :)**

* * *

 **Just Tell Me**

 **...**

It's a beautiful, warm summer Saturday, the food on the traditional English pub table between them is very good, and as the sun streams down on the river beside her, somehow managing to transform the dull, murky brown water into a sparkling, gleaming treasure, Grace looks across at her companion and finds herself smiling deeply in pure, unmitigated happiness. It's just a moment of normality, of easy simplicity in their lives, but it is effortless and uncomplicated, pure and unadorned, and to her that means the world. A few hours of escapism, time for just the two of them in the midst of the chaotic rush that is their working life.

Boyd is gazing steadily back at her, expression open and fond, clearly amused by the intensity with which she has been studying him. One eyebrow quirks slightly in silent question, and as he continues to work his way through the meal before him, he voices a lazy, "What?"

Grace shrugs, and keeps smiling at him. She's well aware of her folly, but they've finally seen the back of yet another in a series of long, hard weeks, and today she is relaxed and sitting beside the river, the sun is shining and there's the prospect of a lazy and thoroughly enjoyable afternoon stretching out before her. "Nothing," she replies easily, "I was just thinking."

His laughter is rich and very genuine as he teases, "Nothing new there, then!"

"I suppose not," she concedes, absently reaching across the table to capture his hand with her own. Thanks to the heat of the day, his skin is warmer than usual and when she slides her fingers between his the response is a flexing of tendons and a snug, quietly intimate grip on her hand as his thumb unhurriedly strokes over her knuckles, softly exploring the delicate contours with which he is already so familiar.

"What about?"

There's something in his voice, something she can't quite identify but that prickles slightly at the edges of her consciousness. A hint of something that holds a flavour of discomfort, wariness. Whatever it is though, it is hidden from her, but she's not worried; Boyd will tell her in his own time. He always does. "You."

"Me?" Both eyebrows rise this time. "Why?"

"I love you. Do I need a reason?"

She expects him to roll his eyes, to complain about the inexplicable nature of female logic but instead he remains quiet and continues to watch her, his expression reflecting back everything he feels about her and the bond they share. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't need to; the slight squeeze of his fingers around her own is enough to tell her everything she needs to know. They let the silence, the deep, peaceful intimacy of the tiny moment last just a fraction longer, before they let go of it. It's a mutual thing, a thing done with the easy synchronicity of two people who know and understand each other entirely; his grip relaxes and she says, "I was thinking about this afternoon, too – do you fancy a walk somewhere?"

There's another pause, but this time the silence is different, far colder. Boyd sighs heavily and lets go of her, instead reaching up to rub his hand over his face, eyes momentarily squeezing tightly shut in a manner that suggests he is struggling, fighting against something. "Grace…" That hint in his voice – she can see it appear in his eyes as they reopen and it stops her cold, chills her to the bone. The fork she is still holding is lowered back to the plate with a sharp clatter as she stares at him, an unaccountable, edgy tension building in her body.

"What?" It's a strangled question; half whisper, half choking demand. Fear has come from nowhere and gripped her, flooding her mind and senses as goose bumps ripple across her arms and a shiver rattles through her. A distant, rational part of her mind observes that this is a ridiculous overreaction, but all of her senses and instincts are suddenly hyper-alert and screaming at her, and she has no idea why. He says nothing and the tense silence drags on, the wait becoming unbearable. Suddenly he can't, or won't, look at her, his eyes fixing instead on the contents of his plate.

Time seems to stand still, dragging out the agony of it all until finally he speaks. "My father died of Parkinson's. He was only sixty-two."

The words fall heavily into the air between them, leaden and terrifying in their gravity despite the lack of apparent context. "I know," she says, utterly confused even as her mind instantly slides back twenty-five years in time to one of the first few cases they worked together and the sudden lunchtime phone call that had him running from the desk over which they were sharing sandwiches, tea and case notes. "I remember."

Again he falls silent, and this time she can see the way he's searching for the words, see that he simply doesn't know how to tell her whatever it is that is on his mind.

"What's the matter?" Grace asks quietly, all too aware of the hint of urgency in her tone, of her desperate need to be reassured. "Just tell me, Peter; please."

She can see the struggle in his face, his eyes, as he continues to study the rim of his plate, the cracked surface of the outdoor table, even though she'd bet money on him not actually seeing it in that moment. His words, when they come, slam into her with the force of a raging hurricane.

"I saw the doctor on Wednesday, and I've been referred for tests."

The breath catches in her throat – it feels as though she's been punched, had the wind knocked clean out of her. What Boyd is saying makes no sense, yet part of her thinks she understands, but, no; no, she doesn't, not at all. He's fine, she knows he is – she lives with him, works with him; spends most of her time with him. If something was wrong, she'd know it. He would have told her. She would have noticed.

Finally he looks up, his gaze connecting with hers and Grace can see the fear there too, the apprehension. The uncertainty about whether he is doing the right thing. She instinctively wants to find the words to soothe him, to reach out to him, but when she tries, nothing happens. Her throat refuses to emit a single sound, her mind won't supply her with the calm, gentle support she is looking for, and though he is less than three feet away from her, suddenly she feels like the distance is three miles and rapidly widening. Like if she reached out to cling on to him, he would slip from her grasp in an instant.

"I can't sleep," he admits, voice uncharacteristically soft, "I lie awake for hours and I'm constantly exhausted, and sore – my joints and muscles are so painful. I thought it was nothing – a bug maybe – that I could deal with it and it would pass, but my hands… they shake sometimes… I can't write properly, and… and that's how it started with my dad. That's how they found out what was wrong with him."

He looks so afraid, and, as she sits and stares and feels a kind of chilling numbness creep through her body, that realisation scares her. Never, in all the years they have been acquainted, has Grace ever known Boyd to be overwhelmed by fear, never seen him not deal with it, or know how to deal with it. But now…

She wants more than anything to reassure him, to reassure both of them – to tell him that everything is going to be fine. But the vast empty space of all the things she simply doesn't know press down on her, claw at her, torment her with an onslaught of dozens of possibilities that could or could not happen, and the truth of it all hits her like a sledgehammer. She doesn't know the answer. She can't tell him what she wants to, because she simply has no idea.

She can feel her heart racing, pounding painfully in her chest – her knuckles are aching and cramping, stark white and clutching at the table edge. The sun, so warm and comforting just a few minutes ago, is now unbearably hot and overpowering, leaving her dizzy and light-headed. The food in her stomach that tasted so good, that tickled her senses with its tempting aroma and delicious flavour, is now tossing and churning, threatening to work its way back up again.

This is a dream – a nightmare; she's sure of it. Any moment now she's going to wake up and everything is going to be fine. In fact, since she knows she's dreaming, Grace realises she can simply tell herself to wake up, so she does. She quietly orders her mind to slide out of the make-believe word of dreams and tumble back into the tangle of reality, just like she has done so many times before.

Nothing happens. Her eyes don't open to the soft glow of early morning light, her head isn't resting on the comfortable fluffiness of her pillow, and she isn't curled up beside and against Boyd. Instead she is sitting at the pub table, staring in horrified silence across at him, and he's still gazing silently back at her…


End file.
